Hermitage, Wat and Some Murder or Other

by Howard of Warwick

  Travel though. That was another wagon of worry all together. Whenever Hermitage wandered away from the path, the path that normally just led round the monastery garden, he had very bad experiences.

  Travelling from the Lincolnshire coast to the hideous monastery at De’Ath’s Dingle had been ghastly. His journey from De'Ath's Dingle to Lincoln and back had almost been his last. Going from De’Ath’s Dingle to Castle Grosmal had been a nightmare and all that running around over the death of Briston the weaver had nearly been the end of him and Wat. The prospect of having to go a few miles away filled him with dread, and now the knowledge reached him of exactly where Bonneville was. His mind had obviously tried to run away and hide from the only possible conclusion, but it had sneaked up behind him.

  'Cabourg,’ he said to Le Pedvin, trying to sound knowledgeable and enthusiastic but sounding lost and hopeless instead.

  'That's right,’ Le Pedvin congratulated him, ‘so you'd better set off pretty soon. I’ve even arranged your transport, for you. How helpful is that?’

  Hermitage had a very good idea how helpful he thought that was, but saying so would only make the man angry.

  The Norman stomped from the building, shouted something insulting at his men, and mounted his horse, riding it away straight through what was left of Wat's fence.

  Hermitage turned back to face the room where Wat was sitting on the floor. Well, he was sitting on Cwen, who was on the floor. Wat appeared to be leaning back nonchalantly but his nonchalant right hand was firmly clamped over Cwen's mouth.

  Her struggling wriggles and muffled complaints came to a halt as she saw Hermitage's face. Even Wat looked at the monk with some alarm, and released his grip.

  'Hermitage?’ Wat asked as he got to his feet and released Cwen, who also jumped up, only pausing to kick Wat on the shin.

  Hermitage looked at the two of them with blank horror.

  'Erm,’ he said, 'how’s your Norman?’

  Caput III

  Choices: None

  ‘We're going to Normandy?’ Cwen asked with some awe and not a little excitement.

  'Hermitage and I are,’ Wat corrected, 'you most certainly are not.’

  Cwen ignored him, 'We're going to look into this murderer, this Bonneville chap?’

  'Hermitage and I are,’ Wat corrected again, 'and you heard what Le Pedvin said. King’s Investigator, it means not you, just me and Hermitage.’

  Cwen waved away these concerns.

  Hermitage was still too stunned to engage in conversation. Cwen, observing his fragile state, led him gently down the stairs, into the kitchen at the back of the house and onto a stool. She put a goblet of wine in his hand and moved it up to his lips, tipping some of the drink into his mouth.

  'Normandy,’ Hermitage muttered. In his time as King's Investigator he'd had death threats, he'd been lined up for execution over one of the murders he was investigating, he'd been set upon by robbers and locked in a dungeon. He'd never been told to go to Normandy though. This was awful.

  'This is awful,’ he managed to get out through his doleful features.

  'It's not so bad,’ Cwen encouraged.

  'It is pretty bad,’ Wat pointed out, for which he got another kick.

  'I mean,’ Cwen went on, 'the Normans are coming and going all the time. If even a Norman can manage it, it can't be that difficult can it?’

  'But,’ Hermitage wasn't cheered, 'it's miles away. Miles and miles.’

  'And over the sea,’ Wat added thoughtlessly.

  If Hermitage's face could have dropped any further it would have been lying on the floor at his feet.

  'The sea?’ he croaked.

  'Wat!' Cwen chided.

  'Well it is.’ Wat muttered.

  'I can't go over the sea,’ the monk pleaded, 'I get sick looking at a boat on the river.’

  'Like I say,’ Cwen tried to encourage, 'the Normans do it, with horses and equipment and everything. If that bunch of lying, thieving pond scum can do it with less brains than their animals, I'm sure you'll be fine.’

  'And that's why you're not coming,’ Wat concluded.

  'Wat.’ Cwen turned her attention from monk to weaver; she was calm and reasonable, just the way she was when it should be absolutely clear to everyone that she was going to get exactly what she wanted. 'We are all going to Normandy.’ It was a statement of fact. 'Hermitage needs me.’

  Wat looked pointedly at Hermitage who looked like he needed a grave to be buried in.

  'And you need me,’ Cwen went on, 'that business with Briston the weaver?’ She left the answer to that question in the air.

  'That business with Briston the weaver, as you so nicely put it, would have gone a whole lot better if you hadn't been there at all.’ Wat's voice increased slightly in volume and animation, heading towards the peaks where his conversations with Cwen usually took place.

  'Oh really?’ Cwen responded in kind

  'Yes really. All you did was end up a hostage. We had to get you out of it. If they hadn't held you, we could have got away and left everyone to sort their own mess out.’

  'I did my bit,’ Cwen snapped.

  'Yes and you'll do it again in Normandy, and there won't be anywhere to get away to. Whenever you see a Norman you go mad. You want to swear at them and hit them and chase them away, even the big ones on horses. What are you going to be like in their own country when the place is full of them? First person you go up to and punch will have us all executed.’

  'I'll be good.’ Cwen calmed somewhat, perhaps she could see the truth of it.

  'I know you'd try Cwen,’ Wat was calmer as well and put his hands on her shoulders, 'but really, if you came along not only would you try to take on the whole Norman army on your own,’ he chanced a smile at this and at least she half smiled back, 'I'd have to spend half the time worrying about you and how to keep you safe.’ They exchanged resigned looks, 'And it’s a full time job worrying about Hermitage and keeping him safe.’

  She did give a short laugh at this. Hermitage was still buried in his awful thoughts of the sea and boats and Normandy and Normans.

  'And,’ Wat held Cwen's look, 'I don't want you going into the lion's den. Can you imagine what the Normans would do with lovely Saxon maiden in their midst? I'll feel much better if you're safe at home. Anyway, like Hermitage says, how’s your Norman? Speak much of it?’

  ‘I can get by. I once stayed in a house where the mistress was a Breton, they all sound the same.’

  ‘Well I’m pretty good as it happens,’ Wat’s chest expanded a bit, ‘did a bit of trade over there in the old days. And I imagine Hermitage is alright, being a learned monk and all.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ the learned monk gave a resigned shrug, admitting he could speak Norman, but rather wishing he couldn’t, ‘but I’m told I have a bit of a scholastic accent.’

  ‘Even better,’ Wat grinned, ‘the killers will think you’re educated.’

  Cwen's mouth turned downwards in a tremble and she threw her arms around Wat, holding him tight, 'I don't want you to go,’ she cried out loud.

  'I know, I know,’ Wat comforted her in his arms, 'I'm not actually that keen myself, but when big Normans with swords come from the King asking you for a favour, it's so hard to decline.’

  Cwen choked a laugh out from her tears.

  'And of course I’ll need someone to keep the workshop going 'till we get back.’

  Cwen recovered herself quickly, 'Me?’

  'Of course.’

  'Me the girl? Me the girl who does boring tapestries which no one wants is to be left in charge of your precious workshop?’

  'Well,’ Wat seemed to be having second thoughts about this generous offer, 'obviously Hartle will be here as well, he'll keep the boys at work and the supplies sorted and the like.’

  'But I'd be in charge?’ Cwen checked.

  'Erm,’ Wat was onto his third and fourth thoughts, 'I suppose, sort of.’

  'Excellent.’ Cwen rubbed her hands, all tho
ughts of Normandy despatched.

  They exchanged smiles, although there seemed to be a touch of scheming in Cwen's and a heavy fist full of worry in Wat's.

  'The lion's den.’

  'Sorry Hermitage, what was that?’ Cwen bent to face the monk.

  'We're going into the lion's den,’ Hermitage's voice was working, although the rest of him was less than fully functional. And it wasn't a voice full of bravado and courage at the thought of being near a lion's den, let alone going into one. Unless the lion was out.

  'A lion's den full of Norman lions,’ Hermitage added dismally.

  'I don't actually think...,’ Wat began before Cwen stopped him.

  'Perhaps they're not as bad as all that,’ Cwen soothed.

  'We know at least one of them's a murderer,’ Hermitage responded without his gloom lifting an inch.

  Wat laughed, 'No we don't,’ he said, 'we don't know any such thing.’

  Hermitage looked at him with doleful eyes, 'But Le Pedvin said...’

  'And do you believe Le Pedvin? The one who just trampled your herbs to death?’ Wat asked.

  'Oh, well,’ Hermitage began. In all his investigations, well the few of them he had completed so far, people kept telling untruths. It was both disturbing and disappointing. If they only told the truth when they were asked, and as they should, things would be so much easier. 'You think he might have been lying?’

  'Do I think he might have been lying? Do I think the sun will come up tomorrow? Do I think Druids do it in the woods? No, I'm absolutely sure he was lying.’

  'You mean there isn't a murderer?’ Hermitage found some hope in the dishonesty of the Norman. Which was disheartening enough on its own.

  'I can't say that,’ Wat leant against the door and adopted a thoughtful pose, 'but I'm pretty sure some parts of old Le Pedvin's tale are as true as a two headed squirrel.

  'Which parts?’

  'That's the problem. All I know is that a man like Le Pedvin wouldn't tell the likes of us the reason he was kicking a sheep to death, much less the details of a Norman noble’s murderous past times. I don't doubt there is someone called Jean Bonneville, I'm sure he's in Cabourg, and I'm absolutely positive King William wants him brought to book. What for and why I have not a clue. Sounds like a falling out between nobles, and as William is on top just at the moment, this Bonneville comes out the bottom.’

  'And he's using us to exact his justice?’

  'Something like that I should think.’

  Hermitage was appalled. 'I'm appalled,’ he said.

  'You frequently are I'm afraid. I don't know how much longer you can go on being appalled by the things the Normans do, after you've seen so many of them.’

  'Well I won't have anything to do with it.’ Hermitage folded his arms and looked authoritatively at Cwen and Wat. 'I don't want to be an investigator anyway, let alone a King's. They seem to be such disreputable people.’

  Both of them shook their heads slowly, in the manner used by the blacksmith when he wants to convey his contempt to someone who has attempted to mend their own cartwheel.

  'Like I said to Cwen,’ Wat explained, 'when a chap like Le Pedvin pops by asking you to do something, you do it.’ He shrugged. 'I'm sure you don't want to be an investigator but in this world your choices are limited. Do what you're told or leave.’

  'Duty,’ said Hermitage with resignation, 'a monk’s life is one of duty. Preferably to a higher authority than a Norman but if that's who God has put in charge we'll have to do it. We shall do it honestly though,’ he declared.

  The head shaking resumed.

  'Not really a very good idea,’ Cwen explained, 'unless of course this Bonneville chap really is a murderer. Then you'll be all right. Coming back and saying, actually Bonneville isn't a murderer at all and no one's been killed, won't make Le Pedvin your friend.’

  'I don't want him to be my friend.’

  'And if he's not your friend, he'll probably kill you. He probably kills a lot of the people who aren't his friend.’

  Hermitage looked to Wat, who nodded his agreement.

  'Really,’ the monk gave way to his irritation, 'how much longer do we have to put up with these people going round telling us to do what they want or they'll kill us?’

  'Don't know,’ Wat speculated, 'thirty, forty years?’

  'At this rate there won't be anyone left to do what they want. We'll all be dead.’

  'I've got a horrible feeling that might be the general idea,’ Wat concluded.

  'So what do we do?’ Hermitage put down his goblet, stood up and started pacing the small space, which consisted of a table, a few scattered stools and the large fireplace with its cooking irons dangling from hooks.

  It wouldn't be long until the midday meal, when the apprentices would troop in for their repast. The large cauldron, which hung over the embers of wood in the fireplace, bubbled with their meal, as it had done for more weeks than anyone cared to remember.

  Mrs Grod, Wat's cook, came in once a day to feed the workshop's occupants and each meal was a new revelation. The contents of the cauldron had started out as chicken, or at least that's what Mrs Grod claimed with little real conviction. As the days went by and the contents shrank, new ingredients were simply piled on top to maintain the supply. Chicken had, over the course of a week or so, become mutton, the adventure being to decide not only which bit of the animal the bones on your plate came from, but from which animal.

  This was fairly straightforward entertainment with a change from bird to beast, but within each genus the challenge increased.

  Some maintained the lamb moved to goat, a very difficult differentiation to make. Others argued that there had been a hint of crow somewhere in the middle.

  It might be argued that those of refined taste would be able to tell the difference between sheep and goat without seeing the remains, but Mrs Grod did not cater for people of refined taste. No taste at all was a better approach to negotiating one of her concoctions.

  There was clear differentiation when the mutton/goat combination moved to fish. The taste was pretty deplorable but at least the shape of the meat changed. Fish became plain vegetables when supplies were low, or Wat was watching the expenditure, and on all occasions the wash of the cauldron's contents was mopped with a ubiquitous bread.

  Dipping the loaf into the stew, or whatever it was called, was pretty much essential, as without this process the bread was capable of driving nails into the table.

  In the middle of Hermitage's pacing, Mrs Grod appeared with fresh supplies for the pot. Well, fresh to Wat's workshop, not fresh in any recognised culinary sense. As she emptied the sack into the top of the cauldron, Hermitage thought he recognised mushrooms and turnips. He did not recognise the meat, but part of it looked worryingly small and domestic, while another had distinctive black and white stripes.

  Unsurprisingly, neither Wat, Cwen nor Hermitage ate from the pot of Mrs Grod. Cwen would tend those who took to their beds after a particularly challenging meal, but that was as close as they got. Wat sent to the tavern for all their food, which they ate in Wat's private rooms to the rear.

  This did give Hermitage pangs of guilt, but better that than the pangs that emerged from the bottom of Mrs Grod's pot. He reasoned that the apprentices were young and their bodies could adapt to this sort of punishment. He was already over twenty and an old body like his would probably give up the ghost at a sprinkle of Mrs Grod's seasoning.

  As the cook fussed over her concoction, fussing being the process of sticking a large wooden spade into the cauldron in a mostly doomed attempt to dislodge the more geological layers, she brushed Hermitage aside.

  The monk stepped promptly away. Mrs Grod was about twice his size, had an outer shell only marginally softer than the cauldron and was of monumentally bad temper. Hermitage didn’t really believe the ridiculous tales of failed apprentices going on to sustain their fellows in a very singular fashion, but he wasn’t going to risk it.

  'Afternoon Mrs
Grod,’ Wat greeted his cook and smiled.

  Mrs Grod smiled back, which was not as alarming as it sounds, it being well known she had a soft spot for Wat. Anything with a soft spot usually ended up in the cauldron, but Mr Wat was special. She did also smile at some of the apprentices, but in these instances her gaze was more akin to that of a butcher gazing at his slab.

  There had been a Mr Grod once, but no one talked about him anymore.

  The cook turned to her pot with a cross between a giggle and a sigh or in her case between a belch and a grunt.

  'Feeding the lads well eh?’ Wat said encouragingly, as he wandered over to the edge of the pot. He stuck his head over the side and foolishly took a sniff. Staggering backwards into Cwen's arms, his eyes moving round in uncoordinated circles, the weaver gave a little cough and collapsed onto Hermitage's stool.

  'Delicious,’ he croaked out.

  Mrs Grod smiled her smile and gave Wat a shy and friendly pat on the shoulder, which almost knocked him to the floor.

  'Well,’ said Wat, snorting to get the mortal remains of the smell from his nostrils, 'we'd best leave you to it.’

  'There's a man,’ Mrs Grod grunted out.

  Hermitage, Wat and Cwen all turned their eyes to the pot.

  'At the door,’ Mrs Grod explained.

  There was a sigh of relief.

  'Says he's been sent.’ For Mrs Grod this was a lengthy and erudite conversation.

  'Sent?’ Wat enquired, 'sent for what?’

  'Take you and him.’ Mrs Grod always referred to Hermitage as “him”.

  Hermitage's speculation was that perhaps Mrs Grod had a bad experience with a monk once, God knew he'd had enough bad experiences with monks himself to feel some sympathy.

  Wat suggested it was more likely the monk had the bad experience with Mrs Grod.

  Whatever the exchange of experiences had been, chances were Mrs Grod thought this was the same monk.

  She also referred to Cwen as “her”, “that woman” or sometimes “slip of a girl who wouldn't even make half a pie.” Mrs Grod was clearly filled with enthusiasm to do something to Cwen, something permanent, but was tempered by her desire not to upset Wat. It was Cwen's relationship with Wat that kept her from harm, but she wouldn't really be of much interest to Mrs Grod anyway. Except perhaps as a filling for half a pie.